Petrichor

petrichor c

 

We know all the moons in this house (Linda Blanche Edwards)

In her presence chamber of dancing stars,
The Moon after Yule in the cloudless night,
Casketed in a frozen lattice of briars
In its slowest rot the soil subtle, light.

The chilly old Wolf Moon of Imbolc
Draws out the earliest shoots and flowers.

The Lenten Moon gently relumes the soil,
All giddy and widdershins; rude with life!

The Egg Moon frail behind the rainshowers;
April loam sweetened by gushing waters.

The Milk Moon in the first sweats of May,
Intoxicated by sickly sweet elder.

At the Flower Moon in flaming June
The farmer’s dog loves the sweet dung and hay.

At the Hay Moon a ripe and heady brew;
Leaf mould in a harlequined July glade.

When the Grain Moon’s above, the moistened land’s
Pungent with crushed ransoms and nettles.

The Fruit Moon in its late heats finds the soil
Fragranted with meadowsweet and yarrow.

Towards the Equinox, the Harvest Moon,
When rain falls on earth rank with fermenting berries.

At the Hunter’s Moon, the rain drains onto soil
Mingled with decaying wood and fungus.

At the Moon before Yule, the sleepy earth
Is roused by a pursued fox’s stink of fear;
Bitter midwinter rains harken, beckon
The old vegetation rites late and near.

 

Stephen Hunt
Collage: Claire Palmer

 

 

 


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